


By Hook or By Crook

by beeeinyourbonnet



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-12 03:38:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3342155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beeeinyourbonnet/pseuds/beeeinyourbonnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just when Belle thinks she's doomed to a life without adventure, an investment banking firm all the way from New York City plops its new headquarters in Storybrooke's abandoned cannery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Nothing ever happened in Storybrooke. Once, the old clock on the library had started ticking again after twenty-odd years, so the town had thought something might be happening, but it had turned out that a nesting bird had managed to grease the cogs, and it stopped again a few minutes later.

On the Sunday that the FOR SALE sign in front of the defunct cannery was covered in a bright red SOLD sticker, everyone assumed that this happening was a false alarm. People talked about it for about an hour, until everyone in Granny’s decided that it was another misguided attempt by the mayor to stir up some excitement, and no one gave it any more thought until the bulldozer came.

The sole employee of Tim’s Bait and Tackle was the first to see it, since all there ever was to do at work was stare out the window at the abandoned cannery.

“Mary Margaret,” Belle said, cell phone hanging just short of her ear since she was too busy staring.

“What’s wrong? Did something happen? I told you that you need to get Tim out of his boat when you need to reach the equipment on the top shelves! Hang on, let me dial 911 on the landline.”

“Don’t dial 911, everything’s fine. There’s a bulldozer.”

“A bulldozer? Where?”

“Outside, at the cannery!” Belle picked her way between boxes of rolled up fishing line and bait, tripping on her clunky work boots in her haste to get out the door.

“What? Really? Do you think someone really bought it?”

“I don’t know. I mean, Mayor Mills could just be pretending it’s been sold so that she can get rid of it.”

Belle’s flannel shirt wasn’t enough of a barrier against the gusty October afternoon, but it was too late to go back and get her coat. She jogged toward the cannery, though it was slow-going with all of the sand.

“I’m coming down there,” Mary Margaret said, sucking in a deep breath.

“Mary Margaret, no. You stay where you are. You know what the doctor said.”

“Belle, I don’t have cancer, I’m just pregnant.”

Belle slowed a bit, so that her own breathing wouldn’t sound as labored as her friend’s. Mary Margaret would take any chance she could to leave the house. “Your blood pressure is too high for you to come traipsing along the marina.”

“I’m not going to be traipsing—”

“You just stay at home, like the doctor prescribed, and I will stay on the phone with you.”

“Belle, I feel perfectly well enough to drive down to the marina and stroll along the beach with you. Are you wheezing? You should lie down, Belle. I’ll take over.”

She slowed again, not nearly close enough to the bulldozer for her curiosity, but afraid that Mary Margaret would end up in the hospital if she didn’t take her time.

“I’m fine, Mary Margaret. I’m just excited. I’m getting closer, although I can’t really tell what I’m getting closer to.”

“I found the keys! David did a good job of hiding them, but I—”

“Mary Margaret, you sit your pregnant bottom back in your rocking chair and go back to knitting that afghan for Ashley, or I swear to you, I will—”

“It’s fine, Belle, it’s fine, I’m just going to drive slowly, make sure I’m listening to soothing music—”

“I will hang up the phone and I will _call David_.”

The other end was silent, and Belle took the opportunity to sprint a few feet while Mary Margaret stewed over her threat. She hated to invoke the husband, but she didn’t have time to convince Mary Margaret not to leave. She was so close.

“Fine,” Mary Margaret said. “But you should know that I finished that afghan for Ashley, and I am starting on one for you, even if you won’t let me come on your adventure. Because I love you.”

“It’s not an adventure, Mary Margaret, I’m just going—oh.” She squinted, slowing down as she approached the bulldozer. “There’s no one in it.”

“There’s no one in the bulldozer?” Mary Margaret half-shrieked. Belle winced.

“Nope. It’s empty. Someone must be off taking a break. Are there any strangers in Granny’s?”

“How should I know? I’m stuck at home.”

“I thought maybe someone else could have called you with news.” She made her way through the churned dirt to the empty cabin. “Leroy usually does, especially now you’re home.”

Mary Margaret gasped. “You’re right! I’ll call him! Oh, but wait, I want to know what you find, first.”

“Okay, hang on.” Belle wedged the phone between her ear and shoulder. Grabbing onto the mirror and a window ledge with her now-free hands, she hauled herself onto the muddy front wheel, shimmying around until she could see through the windshield.

“All right, I’m on the bulldozer.”

“You’re _on_ it?” Mary Margaret asked.

“Yes.”

“I want to be on a bulldozer!”

“Mary Margaret, you know that, even if your blood pressure was normal, there is no way that I would let you climb up this monstrosity seven months pregnant?”

“Yeah, yeah, just get inside the car.”

“Hang on.” Belle set the phone on the hood, then hauled herself forward until she had joined it. “Okay, I’m looking through the window. I don’t see anything except a bobble-head hula dancer and a pack of cigarettes.”

“Not even a water bottle?”

“Mary Margaret, this is not the time to think about hydration.”

“Sorry, sorry, you’re right! It’s the baby, I’m always thinking about nutrition now.”

“I know, I know. I really don’t see—oh, wait, there’s a sign over by the cannery.”

“Well, get off the bulldozer and go look at it!”

“Yes, mother.”

She fell more than climbed off of the tires, and soon she was jogging over to the real estate sign that had sprung up next to the SOLD one.

“Are you there? Can you read it? What does it say?” Mary Margaret asked.

Belle squinted at it. Gold and Associates? What was something called Gold and Associates going to do in an old cannery?

“Belle!”

“It says ‘Gold and Associates.’ What do you think that is?”

“Associates? Huh.” Mary Margaret tapped the phone. “Sounds like Regina couldn’t think of a better secret name for whatever she’s doing at the cannery.”

“Yeah. That’s disappointing.” Belle brushed her hands on her jeans, smearing dirt all over the thighs. “Well, not much of an adventure, but it was a nice break from work, I guess.”

Mary Margaret sighed. “Yeah. I guess we can thank Regina for that.”

“Yeah, I guess so. Hey, I’ll stop by later, all right? I need to get back before Tim realizes I’ve been gone.”

“All right. I’ll just knit your blanket. Alone.”

“Goodbye, Mary Margaret.”

They hung up, and Belle jogged back to the bait and tackle shop. From the window, she could see the bulldozer. It didn’t move all day, not even when she left to take unnecessary inventory in the back, or when she stood between the shelves for fifteen entire minutes, trying to coax something into happening.

But nothing ever happened in Storybrooke, and when she got to work the next morning, the bulldozer and sign were gone, as if they had never been.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanksgiving morning found Belle at the closed shop, digging through receipts. Crouched behind the counter, she didn’t know that anyone was around until the bell on the door chimed, and someone stepped in.

She froze, hoping her breathing was softer than the padded footsteps of whoever was entering. Tim kept a fillet knife under the counter, and she groped around for it, ghosting her fingers over the clutter of pens and receipt paper rolls and paperclips that made up most of the shelf space. Why anyone would rob the bait and tackle, she didn’t know, but she did know that they wouldn’t get away with anything on her watch.

The footsteps stopped, and Belle’s fist closed around the fillet knife. Whoever it was rapped on the counter, and then Belle sprang up, knife in hand.

For a second, all she could do was stare at the man in front of her, teeth bared and knife raised. He was a small man, not much taller than she would be once she changed out of her work boots and into her holiday shoes, with a sharp, angled face and straight hair down to his shoulders. He wore all black, save for the purple tint to his sunglasses. His lips spread to reveal a gold tooth.

“You’ll not be in business long if you stab all of your customers, dearie.”

Belle raised the knife higher. “You can’t be a customer, we’re closed.”

“Oh? The door was open.”

She narrowed her eyes. He was wearing so much gold—on his teeth, on his cufflinks, atop his cane handle. “It’s Thanksgiving.”

He looked at the rusty wall clock. “Is it?”

“Um, yes?”

“I suppose that’s why nothing else is open.”

Belle set the knife on the counter, and folded her arms. “We’re not open either.”

“Then why are you here?”

She glanced down at her receipts, the one she’d been searching for lying face-up on the ground. “Emergency inventory.” She couldn’t tell this stranger she’d come to check a figure to settle a bet with David Nolan.

“I see.” He pursed his lips, gaze flicking toward the fillet knife. He had incisors like a wolf, and Belle suspected his cane might have been hiding a sword. “Well, as long as I’ve got you here, I can tell you to make your rent checks out to ‘Mr. Gold.’ No need for a first name.”

Belle opened her mouth, and no sound came out. Rent checks? “I’m sorry, what?”

“Mr. Gold? That’s my name. Write it down if you think yourself incapable of remembering, although I shudder to think of what it must be like in your head if you can’t remember ‘Gold.’”

“What are you talking about?” She paid her rent to Granny Lucas, who owned her apartment.

He sighed as though she were taking up a great amount of time and effort that he couldn’t be bothered to expend. “I hope you’re not Tim.”

“No, I’m Belle. I run the store while Tim collects bait.”

“Then you are in charge of rent payment?”

“We don’t pay rent.” Her temple was starting to sting. “Tim owns this building.”

“Ah.” He bared his wolf-incisors. “The building, yes, but this land is now mine, and if you don’t want your little shack torn down, then you’ll pay the rent you owe.”

“The—” Belle looked around at the store, at the old shelves and rusty decorations, and could do no more than move her lips like a fish. “That’s not possible. This land is owned by the city, and we have all the permits to build on it. You can’t charge us rent. That’s—you can’t own this!”

“Oh, but I do,” he said, reaching into his coat. Belle snatched up the fillet knife, but instead of pulling a gun, all he came up with was a folder. “Twitchy, are we?”

“What is that?” She jabbed the knife toward him.

“Contracts, as well as copies of your building permits. I’ve decided to honor them, even though the land is now privately owned.” He waved the file before starting to tuck it back into his coat.

“Let me see that.” Belle held out her free hand. Mr. Gold frowned.

“The contracts?”

“No, your coat. Yes, the contracts. Give them to me, please, I don’t believe you.”

He laughed, a sound that sent shivers crawling along her spine. “They won’t make much sense to you.”

She snarled. “Try me.”

Pressing his lips together, Mr. Gold removed the contracts once more, and passed the folder to Belle. With no regard for the propriety of his papers, she flipped through all of the permits and legalese until she came across the deed to the land. She yanked it out, and Mr. Gold winced.

“The cannery and a five hundred foot radius around it?” Belle said. “You can’t be serious.”

“Yes, and I am serious about your rent being due in a week. Six hundred dollars.” He held a hand out. “Now, my contracts, if you please.”

She stuffed the deed back in, and handed it to him. “We’ll see about that,” she said. “Now, did you need something?”

“Nothing from you,” he said, tucking them back into his coat. “Good day.”

“Happy Thanksgiving,” she called after him as limped toward the door. His only response was a grunt.

* * *

She smacked open the Nolan’s front door, red-faced and panting. Mary Margaret looked up from her rocking chair, hands on her belly.

“Belle! You’re not dressed. What’s wrong?”

Half the town was there, helping in the kitchen or setting up the table while Granny delegated, but they all paused to hear Belle’s news.

Brushing her hair out of her face, she pointed out the window as though the cannery was right there. “Someone bought that land.”

“What land?” Granny asked, hands on her hips.

“The cannery!”

“Someone bought the cannery?” Ruby Lucas asked, taller than everyone around her in her five-inch stilettos.

“Yes! And the land surrounding it.”

“The land surrounding it?” Leroy, the hospital janitor and self-appointed bodyguard to Mary Margaret, dropped his bag of rolls.

“That land is public,” Mary Margaret said, starting to stand. “He can’t buy that.”

“No, I think it was owned by the city,” David said.

“Still, public!” Mary Margaret stood, hand resting on her belly. “So does that mean no one can use the marina?”

“What it means is that the store is now on private property, and we have to pay _rent_.”

Everyone gasped. Mary Margaret covered her mouth. Belle stomped over to a chair and sunk into it, giving everyone time to process her news.

“What do you mean, you have to pay rent?” Leroy asked. “Doesn’t Tim own his shop?”

“Yes, but apparently, our building permits are no longer valid. He’s just ‘deciding’ to honor them.”

“Who?” Granny asked. “Who bought the cannery?”

“Someone named ‘Mr. Gold.’ He didn’t leave a first name.”

Mary Margaret and David looked at each other and shook their heads. Ruby shrugged, turning back to the corn pudding she was mixing.

“Did I hear Mr. Gold?” Leroy asked, voice like tires crunching over gravel.

“That’s what I heard,” Granny said.

“It’s a very common name,” Archie, the town psychologist, said, twisting the lace edges on the napkin he was meant to be folding.

“How much land did you say he owned?” Granny asked.

“Um—the cannery, and surrounding 500 feet.”

Mary Margaret threw a finger in the air and started to stand up, but had to press her hand to her belly and sit back down. “We should measure it!”

“What?” Belle frowned. “I don’t know that that’s—”

“The best idea I’ve heard all night.” Granny threw her apron over a chair before starting to turn off everything in the kitchen. “Mary Margaret, how many tape measures do you have?”

Mary Margaret paused the long process of getting out of her rocking chair, frowning in thought. “Two, I think. Maybe three. David, check my nightstand. Belle, my sewing box is in the baby’s room. Will you grab the ones in there?”

“Roger,” David said, jogging out of the room.

“Are we really doing this?” Belle asked, but her blood was starting to flow faster through her veins, and she started for the second bedroom anyway.

“We’ll meet at the cannery. I’ll stop by and find all of my tape measures, and anyone else who has one, bring it. Leave a note on the door so that everyone knows where to find us, and they can join us. We’ll get this squared off once and for all,” Granny said, starting for the door. Ruby hurried after her, grabbing her keys off the hook.

“I think I have one or two,” Belle said, standing up.

“Good. David, bring a chair for Mary Margaret.” Granny paused in the doorway, turning to look at them all. “We’ll meet at the cannery in half an hour.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later, thirteen of the fifteen people who would be attending thanksgiving at Mary Margaret’s were standing in front of the cannery, bundled in winter coats and scarves, carrying tape measures.

“All right,” Granny said. “We start at the building, roll out a tape measure, and someone stands there. We keep going until we hit five hundred feet. Mary Margaret will direct us, since she’s in the chair.”

Mary Margaret waved from the rocking chair she’d convinced David to load into his truck. She looked as though they’d just told her she’d won a trip to the Bahamas. “Great! Let’s get started. Belle, I think you should go first, since you discovered it.”

Belle saluted, and handed one of her tape measures to Archie before marching over to the cannery wall. She rolled out three feet, laid it down, and stood at the end. Archie’s measure rolled four feet next to her, and then David was three feet away from him, and Granny six feet away from him. They had eleven tape measures altogether, and once Ashley was standing at the very end of the line, Mary Margaret looked panicked.

“What do we do now? We don’t have five hundred feet!”

“Is that the last one?” Belle yelled.

“Yes!”

Gathering up her tape measure, Belle jogged over to Ashley and started rolling out again. Mary Margaret clapped.

“Good idea. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that!”

After that, Mary Margaret was in her element. David was in charge of making sure the line didn’t wobble, and that his wife was hydrated between shouting. Granny and Belle took turns repeating orders that Mary Margaret couldn’t shout loudly enough. They got through two and a half rotations before Mary Margaret paused in horror once again.

“What’s wrong?” Belle called, hands on her hips.

“What are you doing?”

Everyone started to turn, taking care to pivot in one spot when Granny barked out a “careful!” Standing about one tape’s length away from Belle was Mr. Gold, leaning on his cane as though all he was doing was watching trees blow in the wind.

“Mr. Gold,” Granny said, folding her arms.

“Mrs. Lucas.” Gold nodded like he intended to tip a hat to her, but turned his attention back to Belle. “I’ll repeat, since you are clearly slow—what are you doing?”

Belle straightened up, chin in the air. “We’re measuring.”

“Measuring?” He looked over at the cannery, gaze slowing as it raked over their line of townspeople, until it landed on Tim’s Bait and Tackle. “Ah. I see. Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll just wait over by your foreman.”

It was silent as he limped over to Mary Margaret who, despite everything, leaned aside to give him room to lean on the arm of her rocking chair. He ignored it, leaning instead on his cane, and turned his gold-flecked grin on Belle.

“Carry on.”

Belle swallowed, teeth clenched, and nodded toward Mary Margaret.

“Carry on!” Mary Margaret yelled, glancing over at Mr. Gold. “Who was next?”

It took half an hour for them to go around twelve times. By the time they were done, they were only a few yards from the shop, where Mr. Gold now leaned against the door.

“You’re not finished yet,” he said. “Continue, please.”

“One more time!” Mary Margaret yelled, voice losing strength.

“We need to finish soon,” Belle said, starting the trek to the end of the line. “Mary Margaret needs to rest.”

“We’re almost done,” Granny said. “Not much more left, and I think your shop is safe.”

Leroy, the sixth in line, hit the shop with his measuring tape. “Done!” he crowed, throwing a fist in the air.

“Not quite.” Mr. Gold limped over. “You’re only at 495 feet, and I think Belle should be the one to continue.”

“Here.” Granny handed her the six foot tape measure as she walked by. “Only five feet left.”

“Thank you.”

David came around to stand in the doorway so that he could see where Belle was lining up her measuring tape. She straightened it out diagonally, until she was, as best as David could tell, five feet inside the shop.

“Done!” she called. Mr. Gold limped inside, strides slow as if he had all the time in the world to make them work. “So, you see, this shop is hardly in your land.”

“Five feet, dearie,” he said. “This shop is on my property.”

“Fine.” Belle looked around her. Now that she was inside, everyone had left their posts in the measuring line to crowd around the door and watch, with Leroy at the head. “We’ll pay you rent for this corner. What’ll it be—about ten bucks?”

“Oh, no.” He shook his head. “If the whole shop is six hundred, this corner must be more than ten. Fifty.”

“Oh, no.” Belle took her cell phone out. “Absolutely not. There’s no way this corner is worth fifty dollars a month. Everyone, get back in here, we’re measuring again!”

It took some maneuvering of shelves, but a lot less dedication to determine that the building was 700 square feet, and then it was a race between Belle and Mr. Gold to see who could use their cell phone calculator faster than the other.

“$16.80,” Belle said, waving her phone in the air. Gold cursed at his touch screen. “We will pay you $16.80 a month.”

“Fine.” He folded his hands over his cane. “Your first payment is due next Friday, and remember that I own every square foot of land around that corner.”

“I’ll remember,” Belle said. “And you remember that we own every square foot in here around that corner.”

He looked her up and down, lip curling as if what he saw put a bad taste in his mouth. “Don’t be late, dearie. You won’t like that, I guarantee it.”

He turned and walked out amidst silence from everyone. When he was gone, Belle slumped over, breathing again.

“I feel a little bit like I just got myself into something instead of out of it,” she said.

Leroy clapped her on the back. “Hate to bring the bad news, sister, but that feeling doesn’t go away.”

As everyone trooped out one by one, Belle lagged behind to look around at the shop. She dreamed of the day she was rid of the bait and tackle, but she’d be damned if she was going to let some old shark take it from her.


	3. Chapter 3

Moe French, owner and proprietor of Storybrooke’s only flower shop, had a collection of tiny sea creatures made out of resin to rival the most enthusiastic bait and tackle shop. Belle, as the only employee of Tim’s Bait and Tackle who knew how to use the internet, was in charge of finding new and interesting items.

“All right, Dad.” Belle plopped a small carton on the countertop. “This one’s just in, all the way from Inverness, Scotland.”

Moe lifted the lid, hands reverent as if it were made of glass. “God,” he said, chest puffing at the sight of the wispy shrimp. “Isn’t she a beauty?”

“Indeed. And she’ll cost you a pretty penny, too,” Belle said, laying a hand over her father’s as she tried to make her voice match the solemnity of the occasion.

“S’all right. Been saving up for this one.” He reached in like his fingers were tweezers, and plucked the shrimp out. “How much, my girl?”

“Forty-five.”

Moe’s eyes widened, and then there was a boom like the shop had it’s own personal thunder cloud. The shrimp leapt out of his hands.

“What was that?” Belle asked, making her way out from behind the counter, tripping when another boom sounded.

“It’s coming from outside,” Moe said, looking around like a spooked horse.

Another boom, and Belle zeroed in on the corner. It was shaking. Her upper lip lifted in a snarl. It had been three days since she’d seen him, but she knew exactly what was making that noise.

“He is not going to get away with this,” she said, grabbing a fishing rod before stomping outside.

“Who?” Moe asked, trotting along after her, though too rotund to keep up.

Mr. Gold was standing outside, legs spread and hands crossed over the head of his cane as though he were just out to enjoy the early Monday sunshine. Next to him, a bald man in a suit was beating the corner of their store with a sledgehammer.

“Excuse me!” Belle shouted, jabbing the fishing rod at Mr. Gold like a spear.

“You are excused,” he said.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”                               

“Wasting time using this, apparently.” Gold looked down at his watch. “This wall is much sturdier than I had anticipated. Dove, stop.”

The bald man froze mid-swing, then let the weapon drop to his side as though it weighed no more than Belle’s fishing rod.

“You—you can’t destroy the wall! That’s not your wall!” Belle waved the rod around. “I’ll sue you!”

Mr. Gold chuckled as though she’d just told a poorly-crafted dirty joke. “My dear, I am first and foremost a lawyer. If you sue me, I will drag you and your little shop through the mud so thoroughly, you’ll be begging for a towel on the streets.”

Belle could think of nothing to say to that, except ‘that’s not fair,’ but she knew that was not something to be said to Mr. Gold, so she said nothing.

“Besides, it’s on my land, and I find it to be an eyesore. Per my deed, I am allowed to take action against items and persons that I do not want on my private property.”

“Who are you?” Moe demanded, and Belle jumped. She’d forgotten he was even there.

Mr. Gold wrinkled his nose, but held out a hand nonetheless. “Mr. Gold. A pleasure, I’m sure.”

“Moe French.” He shook his hand with a heartiness that suggested he meant to break it. “And no one talks to my little girl like that.”

“Oh my god.” Belle pressed a hand to her mouth. “ _Dad_.”

“Ah.” Mr. Gold let his hand drop, rubbing his fingers together like they were dusty. “French. I see.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, Mr. French.” Mr. Gold rested both hands on his cane again, and looked up at him. “This matter does not concern you, unless you are the owner of this establishment.”

Moe blustered, windbreaker crinkling all over like balled up tin foil. “This is my daughter’s—”

“Dad,” Belle said, laying a hand on his arm. He quieted. “I can handle this. Go inside, please.”

She met Mr. Gold’s eyes, and for a second, she could have sworn that he looked impressed. Maybe that’s what she needed—to impress him. She could impress people.

Moe stomped back toward the shop, glaring over his shoulder at Mr. Gold every few seconds. Once he was gone, Belle turned to Mr. Gold—to his gold-flecked shark grin and hard brown eyes—and forced her friendliest smile.

“Well, now that that’s settled—your man must be thirsty from all that hacking. Would he care for some water? Maybe a snack? I brought donuts in this morning.”

Mr. Gold’s face was still enough she thought that he might not have heard her—until he flicked a hand at the bald man. “No. I think today has been less than fruitful. We’ll need newer tools. Dove, move.” He waited just long enough for Dove to straighten up and start walking before offering Belle his hand.

His palm was cold and dry, but his grip on her hand was firm when they shook. She squeezed back. He was a businessman, but she wouldn’t let him forget that she could be one, too.

“Until next time, Mr. Gold.” She let go of his hand, then hiked up her fishing rod so she could carry it without dragging, and turned her back to him.

“Looking forward to it, Ms. French,” he called after her receding form.

It gave her a sick, shivery feeling to think about what he might have meant by that—was he going to burn the shop down?—but she couldn’t help feeling that his rivalry might have been a compliment, and when she pushed the door open, she was smiling with the thrill of this next adventure.

 

* * *

 

If the city officials knew that Belle spent most of her nights for the past ten years in the abandoned library, they never let on. When it had closed almost seventeen years ago, no one had ever bothered to lock the door. They’d just boarded up the windows, and expected it to keep out curious teenagers 16 year olds who’d just been uprooted from Sidney, Australia.

On a quiet Monday evening like this, no one in Storybrooke was doing much of anything other than eating in the diner. It was easy for Belle to slip by the town, through the creaky doors and into the side room with an un-boarded window right where the moonlight fell.

“Where were we?” She ran her flashlight along the book spines, looking for where she’d left off. The historical romance section was one of the biggest in the library, rivaled only by the children’s section. Her light landed on the last one she’d finished, and with a triumphant grin, she plucked its neighbor off the shelf.

The door didn’t have a bell anymore, so the sound it made opening was a dull, delayed scrape. Belle switched her flashlight off, holding her breath as she crouched down. The shelves were low, but she was small. She could probably hide.

Soft, but heavy footsteps shuffled around like a bag scraping the floor. Not the mayor, then—she always wore heels. Belle crouched lower as they grew louder, clutching her flashlight like a police baton.

“Belle?”

Belle sank to the floor. Really? “Mary Margaret?”

The footsteps stopped, and then started up again much closer. “Where are you? Why don’t you turn a light on?”

“There are no working lights,” she said, pressing her forehead into the flashlight. “It’s been abandoned for faulty electrics.”

“Oh. Right. Well I can’t—oh!—see anything.”

With a sigh, she flipped her flashlight on, and raised it above her head to illuminate as much of the doorway as she could.

“Thank you!”

Mary Margaret still stumbled, pausing to get her bearings every few feet, but she eventually made it to Belle. “Is there a chair anywhere?”

“Probably somewhere. Not over here.” She stood, and replaced her book. “Let’s go find one.”

Mary Margaret smiled, leaning on a shelf to help herself turn around. “I was afraid I wouldn’t find you here. But I figured, you’re always here, so I probably would.”

Belle led her through the rooms. The children’s section had an ancient rocking chair. “Why were you trying to find me here?”

“David was sanding a cabinet, and the smell was making me sick. Besides, I wanted to hear about what happened today.”

The rocking chair was shorter than Mary Margaret’s own, and it took almost thirty seconds for Belle to lower her into it. She took her own seat in one of the toddler chairs, straddling it.

“Oh, Mr. Gold just tried to knock the wall down, that’s all.”

Mary Margaret gasped, pressing one hand to her mouth and one to her belly. “Knock it down? Can he do that?”

“Probably not, but he’s apparently a lawyer, so he’ll do whatever he wants.” She shifted, the lip of the chair digging into her legs. “Did Mr. Gold live here before?”

“He must have.” Both hands on her stomach now, Mary Margaret rocked gently, watching a boarded window. “I meant to ask Granny today, but she was serving cherry pie, so it must have slipped my mind.”

“That is entirely—oh, hang on.” Belle’s phone buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out. One glance at the screen had her rolling her eyes and stuffing it back.

Mary Margaret frowned, pausing her rocking with her toes. “Who was it?”

“Just Keith.” She shook her head. “Wanted to know if I could spare one night at the library to come have a drink. As usual.”

“He hasn’t given that up yet?” Mary Margaret looked like she did when one of her students handed in the wrong homework.

“Well, he did for a bit, while he was dating that girl—what’s her name—Jackie? But he’s back on it again. I tried telling him to leave off, but that didn’t really work, so now I just ignore it.” She shrugged. “Anyway, Mr. Gold tried to knock the wall down.”

“By himself? Isn’t he—you know—cripple?”

Belle shook her head. “He had a big, bald man doing it. Some security looking type. He must need a bodyguard or something since everyone hates him.”

“So what happened to the shop?”

She shrugged. “It’s all right, I guess. He said it was sturdier than anticipated, and walked away.”

Mary Margaret rocked back and forth, absently rubbing at her belly. “So if he’s fighting dirty now, what are you going to do?”

“I am going to be nicer to him than anyone has ever been before.” She slumped further in her backwards chair, resting her chin on her hands. “At least, until I can’t stand it anymore, and I have to kill him instead.”

“Interesting plan. I like it. Simple, but devious. Granny will probably try to convince you to buy a gun instead.”

“No, anything I need to fight this battle, I’ve already got. I’m not going to let him push me around. Tim may not know or care what’s going on, but I am going to save his stupid shop.”

“That’s the spirit!” Mary Margaret looked around, eyes falling on the door. “Now, I think we should go home, so that I can have a second dinner.”

 

* * *

 

All was quiet for the next three days. Belle sat behind the counter and read, having only a few customers on the best of days, and almost forgot that she had acquired a nemesis.

That is, until a woman in a pencil skirt with her hair twisted into a knot walked in like she had never been in a bigger rush. She had her phone out, staring at it as she navigated through the door and toward the register.

“Can I help you?” Belle asked. What on earth was she doing in a bait and tackle?

“Ah, yes.” The woman glanced up, flashing a perfunctory smile. “Yes, could you tell me where the nearest Verizon store? I want to get my contract sorted out before we start on Monday.”

For a second, Belle didn’t speak. Then, “Um—sure. It’s about forty miles east. A few towns over. Beg pardon, but what are you starting on Monday?”

She looked up again, head tilted as though she thought Belle were too slow. “Monday? When Gold and Associates opens? We’re all starting Monday, honey. And really? Forty miles? God, why he moved us to this backwater town, I’ll never know.”

Without so much as a thank you, the woman turned on her sensible heels and walked out, eyes still on her phone.

Belle watched until she could no longer see the woman, and then sank down to the floor behind the register. She felt relatively prepared for Mr. Gold—but she had not given any thought to the idea of his associates.


	4. Chapter 4

They came in droves. One minute, Storybrooke was a small town full of small town people, and the next, people in designer suits with leather briefcases were spilling out of all the tiny shops and restaurants. Granny’s was full of people coming and going, none of them taking the time to sit down and eat.

Belle sat in the corner booth with a dozen other irritated townspeople, eating turkey pot pie, Granny’s Monday night dinner special. Mary Margaret had switched to eating dessert exclusively, save for the times that she wanted bleeding meat, and so sat next to her with half a cherry cobbler and spoon that looked like a small shovel.

“I can’t believe Gold,” Leroy said, slapping his half-full beer onto the table. “We finally got over the first time he owned the town, and now he’s back again? There are a lot of things I’d say if there wasn’t a pregnant woman here.”

“What do you mean, he owned the town?” Belle asked. “Was he everyone’s banker?”

“No,” Archie said. “He was everyone’s landlord. He and the mayor used to butt heads over control of town property all the time. I’m surprised she even let him buy more land once he left.”

“He must have offered her a lot,” Ruby said. “We all know she can be bought.”

Leroy slammed his fist onto the table next to his beer. “Maybe they’re in cahoots!”

“He’s not technically doing anything wrong yet,” Belle said, watching a cluster of men on phones migrate toward the counter. “He’s only tried to destroy the shop once.”

“Oh, yeah, only once. What model behavior.” Leroy snorted. “Listen, sister, Gold’s a monster, and if he’s not destroying your shop now, you can bet your sweet ass that he’s planning something big.”

“It’s okay, I’ve got a pl—”

The entire diner fell silent, and Belle closed her mouth without finishing her word. Heads swiveled, chairs rolled, and soon everyone present was staring at Mr. Gold. His lips twitched, but he made no other move to acknowledge the attention, just started his slow, measured limp toward the counter.

“Speak of the devil,” Leroy whispered, and even if the diner hadn’t been silent, Mr. Gold could have heard him.

If Belle was going to kill him with kindness, now was the perfect opportunity. Ignoring Mary Margaret’s cherry-filled stare of horror, Belle stood, and marched over to Mr. Gold. Everyone in the diner watched her, but she kept her focus on the target.

“Hi, Mr. Gold,” she said. “Do you need a place to sit?”

She was sure that the gasp of betrayal came from Leroy. Even Granny looked a little bit like she was going to kill Belle.

“No, thank you,” he said. “I’m taking my order to go.”

“Kitchen’s closed,” Granny said, even though it was only seven.

Gold glanced at her, and then his gaze fell on Ruby, bringing out a fresh tray of turkey pot pies. “I see. Well, perhaps next time, then.”

“We don’t serve rats here.”

For such a beastly man, Belle thought the way his lip twitched was almost vulnerable, like he wanted to cry, and it was a result of him holding off the tears. She had half a mind to invite him back to her apartment and make him dinner, but that was pushing it.

“I see,” he said again, and then started to turn toward the door. “Well, I do hope that your hours are lucrative for you. I would hate for this year’s rent increase to set you back at all.”

“Rent increase?” Granny called after him, and Belle’s stomach felt like it was swimming. “The city never increases my rent.”

“Well, that’s very nice of the city, but I hear your future landlord is not so foolish.”

“New landlord? What the hell are you talking about, Gold? Gold?”

Mr. Gold didn’t break stride, and then he was gone. The diner erupted with noise, and Granny let out a loud hiss.

“What the hell is he playing at?” she asked.

“He’s probably going to buy your building and raise your rent,” Belle said, folding her arms. “There was no need to refuse to serve him.”

“Did you see what he did to me?” She jabbed a spatula toward the door.

“Granny, come on. He was here to have dinner. You could have served him. Business is business.”

Granny muttered something uncomplimentary under her breath, and turned her back to Belle. Leroy did much the same thing when she arrived back at the table, but his cold shoulder lasted all of thirty seconds before he was leaning across.

“What was that all about, sister? None of us want to sit with that rat.”

“I don’t mind,” Mary Margaret said, mouth full of dessert. David rubbed her shoulder, nodding his silent agreement.

“Being rude to him is only going to make things worse,” Belle said.

“But it’s what he _deserves_.”

“No one deserves that. Besides, if being nice is what it takes to keep the peace, then that’s what I’m going to do.”

“Yeah? And what if it doesn’t work?”

Belle couldn’t tell him the truth—that whether it worked or not, it was the most adventure she’d ever had. “I think it’ll work. I have faith.”

 

* * *

 

Watching the cannery was like watching an enraged anthill. There were black specks swarming in and out of the building, converging on all of the entrances. Belle wasn’t even sure what Gold and Associates did, but it must have been important.

She did have to admit that the appearance of this strange new business was good for the bait and tackle. Everyone wanted a glimpse of the new happening in town, but no one as willing to just stand and gawk, so they all stopped by the shop.

Around lunch time, a man in a Game of Thorns t-shirt shouldered his way through the door. The shirt stretched across his pecs, and the sleeves squeezed his biceps like rubber bands. Belle froze, mouth open in preparation for her egg salad sandwich. He took up so much space.

“Hi,” he said, walking over to the desk.

“Hi.” Was she attracted to him, or just amazed? “How can I help you?”

“Mr. French sent me to pick up his order. He said it was paid for?”

Belle frowned. She didn’t have anything new for her father. The shrimp had taken her ages to find. “Um, he didn’t tell me he had an order. Did he say what it was?”

He shook his head, and then frowned. It was a frown she could see in his bulging pectorals, like every block in his body had shifted downward.

“Hey,” he said. “Are you two related?”

“Yeah.” Had Moe really not told him? “Yeah, he’s my dad. He doesn’t have any outstanding orders with us, though, so I don’t know why he sent you here. Maybe he said Tim’s by accident, and really meant Granny’s?”

“No, he said something about shrimp bait?”

“Shrimp bait? He already—” She stopped, and took another look at the rippling muscles. “Are you new?”

“Yeah. Just got hired as a cargo loader.”

Of course. Of course her father would gull this poor, simple worker with muscles the size of a small country into coming to see her. Matchmaking held a place in his heart second only to bait collecting.

“Well, that explains it. Hi, I’m Belle.” She offered her hand. When he shook it, his dwarfed it.

“Hi, Belle. I’m Cliff. Cliff Gaston. What explains what?”

“Nothing. It’s nice to meet you Cliff. I hope you enjoy working at the flower shop. Will you tell my father that, while I appreciate his enthusiasm for bait, I do not need him on my back. I will get it to him when I get it to him.”

“Uh.” He frowned again, until his thick brows connected across his forehead. “Sure? I’ll try to remember. You appreciate his enthusiasm for bait, but you’ll get it to him when you get it to him?”

“And he needs to get off my back. Don’t forget that part.”

“Right. Is he going to fire me for saying any of this?”

She shook her head. “Don’t worry. If you’re a good employee, he won’t fire you for my backtalk.”

“Oh. Good.”

She smiled at him, waiting for him to turn and leave so that she could go back to her egg salad, but he lingered, tapping his thick fingers against the counter.

“Is there—”

“Uh, yeah, actually. Um. Could I—could I come back and talk to you again? Maybe? Not about your father?”

“Oh.” No one had ever asked her if they could come to her store before. “Um—yeah. Yeah, of course. Sure.”

“Cool. Great. Yeah, that’s good. Cool.” He backed up until he hit the door, and then jolted as though he wasn’t expecting it to be there. Belle gave an obligatory laugh, and a tiny wave to match his own, and then he was gone.

His backside was just as muscular as his front, thigh muscles moving like chain links when he walked. He might not have been the sharpest tool, but he was certainly the hardest working.

The bell tinkled again a few minutes later while she was organizing below the counter, imagining what Cliff Gaston might have looked like without his sky blue Game of Thorns t-shirt and jeans.

“Can I help you?” she asked, shoving a box onto a shelf before standing up.

Mr. Gold didn’t bother facing her, just limped toward the corner. “I came to see how best to use my space.”

Belle clenched her teeth. Kindness. If anyone could kill him with it, she could. “What are your options?”

He turned, and she was again faced with his narrow-eyed stare, like he couldn’t quite figure her out. “I was thinking of a printer.”

“Seems like a long way to go just to print things.” She hopped onto the counter, swinging her legs over until her work boots thudded against the wood. “Would be more of a hindrance than a help, don’t you think?”

“My employees could use the exercise. I fear they’ll get chubby in small town Maine, and then they’ll complain.”

“What do your employees do, exactly?” She swung her legs, tapping her heels against the counter with each swing, until Mr. Gold’s mouth twitched.

“What do you mean?”

“What kind of business is Gold and Associates?”

“It’s an investment banking firm.”

She didn’t know what investment banking was. She also wasn’t going to ask him. “Oh, that’s interesting. Were you an original partner, or did you buy the old company out?”

“I built this company from the ground up. When we got big enough, I decided to move back to the town I got my start in.” He spread his hand out toward the docks, taking in what was no longer the cannery. “It’s always good to give back to the community.”

“By buying it up?”

His gold tooth glinted in his smile. “Change isn’t always a bad thing, Miss French. What was the town ever going to do with the abandoned cannery?”

“I’m not talking about the cannery.” She hopped off the counter and walked over to him, folding her arms. “I’m talking about Granny’s.”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I used to own that building, as well as several others. I sold it to the city at a fraction of what it should have been, and I plan to re-acquire it. She should consider it as having been on a loan.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Life isn’t fair, Miss French. Do you think a wireless printer would connect from this far away?” He squinted out the window. “It might be just slightly too far.”

“You could use it for paper storage.”

“The idea has merit, although paper is not as secure as a printer. A customer could easily walk away with it.”

“I would never let them walk away without paying.”

“A woman after my own heart.” He pressed a hand to his chest, and when Belle laughed, his Adam’s apple bobbed. “That was a quip. Not serious.”

“Of course.” She started to head for the counter. “Well, I’m not sure how much help I can really be, considering we don’t have the same end goal here, but if you need any advice on fishing equipment, then I’m your woman.”

He straightened out his already straight suit jacket. “I don’t think that will ever be necessary. Good day, Miss French.”

“See you next time!” she called after him.

Once he was gone, she sagged against the counter, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. Mary Margaret was going to die when she found out about her civil conversation with the town beast.


End file.
